Three Reflections on Zionism
By Asher Biemann
Return and Revolution
In the roughly 100 years of its existence, the meaning of “Zionism” has undergone a gradual transformation from a revolutionary Jewish struggle for self-liberation to a form of Jewish conservativism. Today, the “old” Zionism appears to many as an anachronism, while the “new” Zionism has so successfully rebelled against itself that it may seem to have left Zionism altogether to the past. And it is in the past, in the domain of history, that we hope to find any descriptive meaning the term “Zionism” might have, or might once have had.
Unfortunately, however, the historians and “Herren Professoren,” as Theodor Herzl wrote in January 1900, always arrive after the fact and “explain to us what has happened” without truly understanding what is happening,1 while those who themselves are in the midst of action are too absorbed to give a reliable account of what their actions are about. We do not know what Zionism really is, Herzl admitted, but we are “on the way,” like on a train whose tracks have yet to be built.2
When in 1893, the Viennese writer and editor of the local Jewish journal Self-Emancipation, Nathan Birnbaum, introduced the term “Zionism” as a synonym for the “National-Jewish Party,” he did so because it was not only “land” that he deemed the “secret of the solution of the Jewish question” but the land—Palestine, the land that is “most intimately interwoven with Jewish national traditions and hopes.”3
Tradition and hope, one may say, became the ideological pivots of the Zionist movement and indeed the poles of its polarity. Without the intersection of past and future, continuity and interruption, interruption and restoration, Zionism could neither have stirred emotion nor satisfied logic. In “Zion” the voice of the Psalms and prayers resonated, a sweet melancholy and nostalgia. From the material rubble of Jerusalem a liturgical and, as it were, meta-material city had arisen, an idea in which the whole of Judaism, its memory and its destiny, seemed distilled. “Zionism,” for Birnbaum, served as a descriptive and distinctively modern term for an essentially ancient phenomenon, for a Jewish mental condition that now, at the end of the nineteeenth century, had extended into the material world. By the time Birnbaum coined “Zionism,” a variety of Jewish national organizations with different leanings and evocative names such as “Esra,” “Lemaan Ziyon,” “Hovevei Ziyon,” “Ahavat Ziyon,” or “Admat Israel,” already existed in Europe and in the United States. Whether religious or secular, practical or theoretical, agricultural or cultural, the idea of Zion (Zionsidee), for Birnbaum, remained their inalienable essence. Zionism, then, appeared to be a uniquely unifying concept, and the National-Jewish Party promoted itself as a supra-denominational organization designated to unite the otherwise mutually exclusive religious factions of Judaism under the sole banner of “deed.”4 To Birnbaum, the success of Zionism would depend exactly on its sacred memory, yet also on its religious neutrality and the fact that in truth the National-Jewish Party was not a religious party at all but Judaism itself stripped down to its most abstract and yet also most concrete conceptional foundation: messianism.
In the logic of Jewish messianism, the course of history is conceived not as linear progress or circular repetition but as one whose future is dependent on the fulfillment of the past. From the view of sacred history, the past is only incomplete, the old kingdom rulerless and in disarray. But the past is not a thing of the past, and the kingdom has not vanished, not as long as the people still exists and are not at home in Galuth (exile). In Jewish messianism, exile assumes a purifying role, slowly forging an ideal people for the realization of an ideal past. “It is ever purging and tempering itself,” wrote the Jewish historian Simon Dubnow of the Jewish national spirit, “in the furnace of suffering.”5 The paradox of Jewish messianism is that it yearns for the restoration of a past that has not yet passed; that what Gershom Scholem identified as the restorative and utopian tendencies of messianism are in truth one and the same; that, indeed, its meaning is to restore the future, to restore utopia.
Between topos and utopia, place and placelessness, fact and future, occurs the act of revolution, wrote the Jewish social philosopher and anarchist Gustav Landauer in 1907.6 The revolutionary seeks to turn topos into utopia, seeks to redeem the present from having become what it is. Revolution means the ever turning. Yet, in turning topos into utopia the revolutionary also turns utopia into topos. Future must become fact. The true revolution, the true turning, takes place only between place and placelessness, in the pure space of time.
It is in the concept of revolution that messianism and Zionism meet. If in the messianic picture national restoration and national redemption are superimposed, then Zionism and messianism are vying for the same idea. If the Messiah was born on Tisha be’Av, the day the Jewish national center was turned into ashes and the people “redeemed” of its materiality, as tradition teaches, then the idea of Zionism was born on the same day. But if messianism means the revolution in time, the ever new restoration of placelessness, then Zionism became the revolution in space, the return to topos.
What appeared to be the only foundation of Jewish unity soon proved to be the ground of bitter strife. To be sure, in traditional Jewish liturgy and ritual the image of a return to Zion is so profuse and prominent that the term “Zionism” was destined to evoke a richness of associations and yearnings even among the remotest Jews. But nowhere in the same liturgy and ritual is the return to Zion understood as a self-performance of the people: God returns “in compassion” and “restores his Presence in Zion.” God “gathers in the dispersed of his people” and returns our “captivity like springs in the desert.” There is only one return the people may perform on its own—the “turning,” or revolution. Hosea’s call “shuva Israel”—“return, O Israel”—was a call not for settlement in Zion but for repentance in the unsettling days (14:2). Here, national rebirth is not conceived as an exodus from Exile but as a homecoming to God: “Those who sit in his shade shall be revived” (14:8).
From its earliest beginnings, then, Zionism bore its own antithesis. The continuous struggle in which Jewish Orthodoxy attacked Zionist activism was not the result of Zionism defying the traditional expressions of messianic hope, but precisely of Zionism fulfilling them. Thus, the secular historian Dubnow could mock political Zionism as “merely a renewed form of messianism,”7 while a prominent leader of anti-Zionist neo-Orthodoxy, Isaac Breuer, went as far as to compare Theodor Herzl to the “King of the Jews” wandering around the globe—with a crown of thorns on his head.8 Being fully aware, however, of the troubled history of false messiahs in Judaism, most Zionists did not grow tired of asserting that, as Smolenskin did in 1881, “we intend neither to attempt to force the arrival of the Messiah, nor to establish our Kingdom now.”9 For the most part, Zionism presented itself as neither messianic nor un-messianic, but as pre-messianic, pre-redemptive, or simply practical. Thus, to be true to its name and to “captivate and inspire the entire Jewish world with elementary power,” as Birnbaum put it,10 Zionism placed itself both inside and outside the messianic tradition. To avoid friction while still remaining inspirational, it had to become messianism without the Messiah, return without redemption, rebirth without resurrection; in its last analysis, Zionism without Zionism.
Repair and Regeneration
What Zionism really sought to become was a form of repentance. When in 1897, shortly after the first Zionist Congress, Achad Haam, “one of the people,” as Asher Ginsberg called himself, began to draw a sharp distinction between “Zionism” and his own movement “Hibbat Ziyon” (Love of Zion), he did so because, for him, Zionism in its modernist Western form had assumed the role of pop-culture redemption: “The wretched, hungry public is listening, becoming ecstatic, and hoping for salvation.”11 And it was Theodor Herzl’s Jewish State of 1896 that presented itself as the instant gratification of their hope: “Today, everything is real,” Herzl assured the skeptics in the conclusion of his manifesto. “The Jews who want their state, will achieve it.”12 What inevitably had to be perceived as the very utopian nature of his vision turned Herzl into a staunch anti-utopianist: “I am not inventing anything,” he wrote in the preface to the Jewish State. “The material ingredients of the building that I am designing, exist in reality and can be grasped with both hands.”13 To Herzl and the political Zionists, Zion was a topos, temporarily out of order, but still reparable with the wrenches of skilled mechanics. The ultimate topian feature of Herzl’s Zionism was the self-sufficiency of space which culminated in the Uganda proposal of 1903 as a “stop-over” for the plight of the Jews. “Palestine or Argentine?” Herzl pondered already in the Jewish State, concluding that “the Society will take what it gets.”14 Although he maintained that the “ultimate goal” would remain Zion, Herzl also believed that the immediate problem of the Jews could be resolved through territorial sovereignty alone. The eternally wandering, displaced Jew needs a “definitive homeland,” he wrote in 1897, “soil and honor.”15 True, Uganda would only be the bread of the poor, Herzl defended himself in a famous speech of 1904, but it would still be bread.16
One might think that Herzl’s practical territorialism was so far removed from the sphere of messianism that it was eschatologically immune. Yet, as we know from the strong reactions against the Uganda option by secular and religious Zionists alike (who then quickly called themselves Zionei Ziyon - “Zionists of Zion,” so as not to be confused with the Zionists of Uganda) - quite the opposite was the case. Territorial Zionism was soon to be equated with territoriolatry, “worship of the soil,” as Isaac Breuer nagged in 1925 on behalf of the Orthodox position.17 For Breuer, the messianic nation was precisely the nation without soil, the displaced nation: “Not the soil is its source of strength and power; rather it lives on the air of Eden [paradise], in the sphere of messianism.”18 Exile was its “salvation,” God is its “space.” In worshipping the land, then, by placing topos before utopia, territorial Zionism had not left messianism behind (or ahead) but created its own, false messianism. The “national home,” Breuer wrote, fell nothing short of the “destruction of the Jewish people.”19
The Orthodox rejection of territorial Zionism as topian messianism was shared by the so-called “cultural” and “spiritual” Zionists, who, for the most part, were disciples of Achad Haam. In contrast to the Zionists, the members of “Hibbat Ziyon” put the emphasis of national liberation on the liberation of “spirit” and the revivication of “culture.” To them, the Zionism of the “rumbling stomachs,” as Achad Haam wrote in his first critical essay of 1889,20 had become a mere “appendage” to the fantastic religious notion of “resurrection of the dead,” whereas “Hibbat Ziyon” aimed for the “resurrection of the hearts,” a spiritual regeneration: “[T]he heart of the people is the foundation on which to build the land,” wrote Achad Haam acknowledging, however, that the people was currently in a “shattered and rotten” state.21 In placing the body before the heart (and the heart, in Jewish traditon, is the seat also of the mind), Zionism put the end before the beginning, thereby putting an end to the beginning. From the standpoint of external exile, the physical pressure of poverty and anti-Semitism, territorial sovereignty was indeed an end in itself. Within the boundaries of topos, the historical rupture that exile represented could be repaired. But outside the boundaries, in the sphere of pure time, exile would continue. For in utopian, that is, messianic history, external repairs are of no avail: The true exile of exiles is the exile “within.”
What, then, gave Zionism the confidence to repair the exile without? Achad Haam responded: the Enlightenment. For it was precisely the Enlightenment that had created the possibility of the external Jew, the “Jew outside,” the Jew who, for the first time, experienced the world as an extension in space. But in extending himself into the external, the “Jew outside” had to leave the “Jew inside” behind. Free as “man,” the “‘Jew inside’ remained what he always was: a slave with all the attributes of slavery that he had acquired in the course of exile.”22 Zionism only came to turn the inward outward; but it could not redeem it from slavery.
Neither could Hibbat Ziyon. By its very conception, Hibbat Ziyon was regenerative rather than redemptive. The “resurrection of hearts” could not be done on behalf of the people, in one revolutionary swoop, but only as an evolutionary process in each individual. “Know yourself!” was the principle command of Love of Zion,23 and the Socratic secret of midwifery applied to the recovery of this love as well. “Without teaching and admonition,” Achad Haam envisioned a “regeneration of Judaism”24 that would precede and supersede the restoration of Jewish territory. The true “lover” of Zion, like the true lover of wisdom, desires but does not possess. Possession is the hubris of the Zionists, just as it was the hubris of the Sophists. Yet, just as the philosopher must believe in the possibility of truth, so the lover of Zion must believe in the possibility of Zion.
Achad Haam’s self-denying Zionism set out to awaken desire and make the heart/mind aware of its “inner Judaism.” Like the first philosophers, “Israel begins to marvel at itself.”25 And as it recovers its own memory—not unlike the Platonic anamnesis (re-remembrance)—it begins to regenerate itself, to be reborn from within. This is the meaning of “Hibbat Ziyon”: regeneration (thiya) of memory, regeneration of the generations (toldot), the repair of Israel’s spiritual history, for it was the “spirit” (ruah) of Judaism, not its physis, that “spiritual” and “cultural” Zionists as well as anti-Zionists and a-Zionists such as the historian Simon Dubnow, considered “immortal” and “eternal.” By its own definition, the regeneration of the “spirit” could not happen in a bypath of Judaism, let alone outside of it. Hence, Achad Haam did not hesitate to describe Hibbat Ziyon “as neither a part of Judaism nor an addition to it but Judaism itself in its entire totality.”26
With this expansion of Zionism, the Achad Haam school sought indeed to create a more inclusive version of Jewish nationalism. Such a prospect of inclusivity led even the author of the term “Zionism,” Nathan Birnbaum, to effectively abandon his brainchild in 1902 and replace it with “Jewish Renaissance,” only a year after it had been introduced by his Viennese colleague Martin Buber. In light of the new movement, Birnbaum wrote, “the term ‘Zionism’ has become too weak and too narrow.”27 Soon the term “greater Zionism” appeared alongside many other terminological revisionisms as a form of “purified,” “enlightened,” and more inclusive Zionism, which the Prague philosopher Hugo Bergmann simply called “Judaism on its way to self-liberation.”28 As late as 1958, it should be noted, Mordecai Kaplan, the founder of Jewish Reconstructionism in America, still used the term “greater Zionism” in an address at the convention of American Zionists.29
But here, too, the inclusiveness turned into exclusivity. Unable to define the “spirit” of Judaism that ought to be revived, the “greater” Zionists turned to Jewish “culture” whose meaning was even more elusive and even more at odds with the traditional camp. When Birnbaum wrote about the “great renaissance movement” as the “genesis of a culture” (with culture as both subject and object) and the “process of seeking and finding oneself,”30 he was fully conscious of its elusiveness and indefinability. But this was precisely the point of spiritual and cultural Zionism: that its program did not consist of finding land but of discovering oneself. That national redemption would begin not with the inspection of territory in Palestine, Argentine, Uganda, or elsewhere, but with the process of introspection in exile. “Galuth is no less than indespensable for the Jewish Renaissance,” Birnbaum wrote in 1903.31 Negating exile would therefore amount to the negation of redemption. What Herzl failed to do, Achad Haam wrote shortly after the third Zionist Congress in 1899, was to realize that the source of redemption was not to be found in the “great leaders of the land” but in the “turning of the hearts of the people.”32 And “turning,” in Judaism, means repentance.
Illusion and Realization
Ultimately, neither "cultural" Zionism modelled after Hibbat Zion, nor religious Zionism—having realized, like Breuer or the Rav Kook, that if secular Zionists could not be turned into baalei teshuva (penitents), they at least could be turned into unwitting agents of a higher plan of salvation—rejected the program of territorialism entirely. "The Judaism of Eretz Israel (the land of Israel) is the very redemption," wrote Abraham Isaak Kook, who, in 1921, became the first Ashkenazi chief rabbi of Palestine.33 To be sure, Kook did not subscribe to the extreme topianism of the early Herzl, but he did embrace a form of physical Zionism that was not far removed from Max Nordau's famous call on the Jews in 1900 to become "muscular" again by emulating the "war-tested and joyously militant (waffenfroh) Judaism" of the ancient resistance fighter (and pseudo-messiah) Bar Kokhba.34 Along with the spiritual return, Rav Kook argued, a "physical return" would be necessary "which will create healthy flesh and blood, strong and well formed bodies, and a fiery spirit encased in powerful muscles."35 Where Achad Haam had carefully put the "resurrection of the hearts," Kook bluntly invoked the image of a "physical resurrection of the dead," for "[w]e have neglected health and physical prowess, forgetting that our flesh is as sacred as our spirit."36 Even Isaac Breuer, in his 1921 "Frankfurt manifesto" of Agudat Israel (the anti-Zionist Orthodox unity party), recommended "gymnastic exercise," if also with a degree of "moderation": "Only a healthy body can endure the hard demands of Agudism."37 Breuer's quite creative model of "Torah-im-derekh-eretz-Israel" (literally, Torah combined with the way of the land of Israel) represented a remarkable revision of his grandfather's "galuthist" confession of "Torah-im-derekh-eretz," usually understood as Torah combined with secular studies, as it still prevailed among most neo-Orthodox Jews in imperial Germany. Not "land and soil" but the "common task of the Torah" establish the bond of Israel, wrote Samson Raphael Hirsch in 1836.38 While Breuer, in theory, repeated this credo in 1925, as we have seen earlier, he also introduced a new parlance of Torah: The "law" of the Torah and the "soil" of the Torah.39 Only in the land of Israel could law and soil be truly combined. And therefore, Breuer argued, they must be combined.
Similarly, Achad Haam, though far from advocating a theocracy, recognized that Jewish "spirit" and Jewish "culture" would need a "center" if they should serve as a truly unifying force. The utopian spirit, eternally soaring over the limitlessness of diaspora and time, still was in need of a topian home, a place to stay and to be. Echoing the proclamation of the first Zionist Congress, Achad Haam defined the goal of Hibbat Ziyon as the "creation of a homeland for our spirit,"40 a "secure and autonomous center for our national culture,"41 toward which all spiritual energy could "gravitate."42 The idea of space was not absent even in the loftiest of all cultural and spiritual Zionists. In his 1916 essay "The Spirit of the Orient and Judaism," Martin Buber, though reiterating the "purifying" role of exile for the indestructible "primal force" of Judaism, contended that this "force" could become creative again only in the "motherly soil," through its "re-rooting in the native land," by "the verification of life in the narrowness of Canaan."43
It was the very openness of cultural and spiritual Zionism, and the Jewish Renaissance movement at large, that required constraints, a notion of space, the localization of a center, a direction to turn to for the cultural penitents in exile. To be sure, the Jews of Vienna, Berlin, and Prague could produce culture without limits, and were supposed to do so as an act of turning; but only the Jews of Zion would produce "true" culture and "true" spirit, untainted by the idols of the Occident. The "authentic" Jew in exile was all but an illusion, for Buber even "destructive."44 The Judaism of exile, he called "fictitious."45
The matter for each camp of Zionism was sufficiently clear: Just as an increasing multiplicity of Jewish religious branches was engaged in a battle over "true" Judaism, the new variety of Zionists vied for "true" Zionism. "True Yehudim," Jacob Rosenheim wrote on behalf of Jewish Orthodoxy in 1906, using the "authentic" Hebrew word for "Jews," "were Zionists long before Zionism even came into being."46 In the rhetoric of truth and illusion, authenticity and fictitiousness, the forms of practical-territorial Zionism emerged as the ultimate illusion. Biting criticism descended upon Herzl's literary escapade of 1902, Old-New-Land. The Orthodox journal Der Israelit treated it as a mere "product of fantasy" which, better yet, the author Herzl had begun to take for reality.47 No less biting was Achad Haam's review of Herzl's futuristic novel, noting that "in Old-New-Land nothing can surprise us, for everything is one big miracle."48 The minute imagination of facts, Achad Haam continued, illustrates how the "'messianic age' that is at our door reflects itself in the head of the Zionist leader."49 For Rosenheim, the hallucination of facticity was the essential symptom of "Zionist hypnosis."50 In contrast to political fairy-tales, the "renaissance of traditional Jewish spirit and its outward forms is possible at all times," Rosenheim insisted, adding Herzl's own, now proverbial words: "If you wish it, it is not a dream."51 According to Breuer, the great illusion of all Zionists was their conviction that they were agents in the "actual" world and "real" history, in the realm of Kant's "an-sich," while in truth, they were mere shadows in the phenomenal world. "Torah true" Zionism, on the other hand, and spiritual-cultural Zionism, both of which considered themselves nothing less than identical with "true Judaism," could claim "truth," for they had not attached themselves to the factual world, to material topos. Rather, the physical space, to them, was a place that was both there and not there, a place yet to be realized as a space of Torah, "spirit," or "culture." In practice, the utopian sphere, the "meta-historical" truth, was the only topos these Zionists could hope to lay claim on. Quite naturally, their parallel conquest of utopia set religious and spiritual/cultural Zionists apart with mutual hostility much fiercer than any political Zionist could have provoked.
The critics of Old-New-Land were right. The novel was not much more than a low-brow combination of fin-de-siècle science-fiction, social experimentalism, and literary schmaltz. But what they failed to see was that Herzl had conceived of it as exactly that; that not Herzl but his critics had fallen prey to the illusion of words, and that Herzl, in fact, was well aware that his Zionism had to appear to the world as a piece of art for it to be effective: "Artists will understand," Herzl noted in his diary as early as June 1895, "why I who otherwise am known to be a man of reason, had to let grow hyperboles and dreams in between my practical, political, and legal explanations like green grass in between grey cobble-stones . . . This delusion [Rausch] was necessary."52 From his early diaries we know that the idea of a novel preceded Herzl's plan to write a practical pamphlet. "In order to allure Jews to the land, you have to tell them the legend of gold," Herzl quoted himself responding to the Baron de Hirsch. "The fantasy could be: Who plows, sows, and harvests will find gold in the sheaf."53 "Believe me," Herzl wrote in a letter to the same Baron, "you can only make politics with an entire people—even more so if it lives in dispersion—with ideas that are high up in the air," with "dreams, songs, and fantasies," in a word—"with religion."54 The "mighty legend," therefore, was the single argument for a settlement in Palestine. A writer by profession, Herzl was convinced from the start that the medium of legends and fantasies would be esthetics and "powerful propaganda." "Send magnificent posters to the [world]exhibit of 1900," he noted in his diary five years in advance.55 "Artistic folk festivals" all over the country with "colorful parades" would do their part in maintaining the legend.56 "In truth, I still am a great dramatist," Herzl wrote a few days later. "I take poor, ragged people from the streets, put them in elaborate garments, and let them act in a fantastic play that I have devised."57
This should suffice to show that the Herzl we encounter in his diaries appeared as a political magician rather than a hallucinating playwright. In fact, where Herzl loosened the utopian cloak of his pragmatic realism—as in the Uganda proposal—reality collapsed. To Herzl, Zionism was one grand stage, the total set of a play. What made Herzl's plan as successful as it was (and its success was limited already at the time), was precisely the illusion of the "Promised Land" fused with the "illusion of the old home." The Jews of Europe would "hardly notice" that they were being moved to a new land.58 "Entire milieus, where Jews feel at home, must be transplanted," Herzl suggested.59 And to the potential new immigrant who could not live without Viennese pastries he responded: "Then I shall also transplant an authentic Viennese Café."60
And here we can revisit the fundamental difference between topian and utopian Zionism. While Herzl had to dress his utter realism in utopianism, the religious Zionists and their spiritual/cultural antipodes had to dress their utopianism in realism. It was not enough for the Zionism of the "true" Zionists to be more true. It also had to be more real. Hence, Buber distinguished between the Zionism of realpolitik, whose politicians were "fictitious," and the "Zionism of reality" (Wirklichkeitszionismus), whose agents acted in the domain of "realization"; between "actualism" and "true" realism. "Actualism" he called the simple "mastering of the facts,"61 "realization" "the secret of the covenant between God and man."62 Once again, the "true" reality was not the physical reality of the land but a meta-topian, meta-historical reality transforming the people. To become real, the "true" Zionists had to become utopian. And to become utopian, they had to become real. If the agenda of the "true" Zionists ultimately remained unfulfilled, then it was not because the Zionism of realpolitik had outlived them on the stage of real-history but because Zionism, to them, had not yet become reality. Like the true messianists, the "true" Zionists continued to live in the pre-Zionist era, always "in awe before reality,"63 always realizing without ever actualizing.
The tension between topos and utopia was never resolved in the history of Zionism. Nor did any of the competing tendencies in Zionism ever emerge as ultimately successful. Nor, for that matter, did any of them completely fail. In a certain sense, Israel "fell into place" with all the tragedies and triumphs that accompany the struggle for the bare survival of a nation. It did so not out of historical necessity but out of human need. And when it did, it fell from the abundant realm of time into the narrow realm of space. This was perhaps the most dramatic transformation of Judaism in the modern period: The Judaism of time has become a Judaism of space. It can no longer deny the power of topos, for it can no longer rely on the power of time. Time is a venture without refuge. In time we could call ourselves the masters of utopia, but not more than that. In space we are the agents of actuality, but we are also limits to others. Where I am, says the voice of topos, there you are not. And the voice of utopia, what does it say? It remains silent in the limitlessness of time.
Asher Biemann is Lecturer in Modern Jewish Thought and Intellectual History, Committee on the Study of Religion, Harvard University. He is editor of the Martin Buber Reader: Essential Writings (2002), and contributing editor to the 21-volume critical edition of Martin Buber’s collected works in German.
1. Theodor Herzl, “Underway,” in Collected Zionist Works, vol. 1 (Tel Aviv: Hozaah Ivrith, 1934), p. 387.
2. Ibid., p. 388.
3. Nathan Birnbaum, The National Rebirth of the Jewish People in their Land, as a Means of Solving the Jewish Question. An Appeal to the Good and Noble of All Nations (Vienna: Selfpublished, 1893), p. 13.
4. Ibid., p. 43.
5. Simon Dubnow, “Jewish History: An Essay in the Philosophy of History,” in Nationalism and History: Essays on Old and New Judaism, K. S. Pinson, ed. (Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society), p. 321.
6. Gustav Landauer, The Revolution, in Society: A Collection of Sociopsychological Mongraphs, Martin Buber, ed. (Frankfurt/M.: Rütten and Loening, 1907), p. 13.
7. Dubnow, “Letters on Old and New Judaism,” in Nationalism and History, p. 157.
8. Isaac Breuer, Jewish Problem (Halle/Saale: Hendel Verlag, 1918), p. 51.
9. Peretz Smolenskin, “Let Us Search For Our Ways,” reprinted in Arthur Hertzberg, ed., The Zionist Idea: A Historical Analysis and Reader (New York: Atheneum, 1982), p. 152.
10. Birnbaum, The National Rebirth, p. 13.
11. Achad Haam, “The Jewish State and the Jewish Problem,” in The Zionist Idea, p. 262.
12. Herzl, “The Jewish State,” in Collected Zionist Works, vol. 1, p. 103, p. 104.
13. Ibid., p. 19.
14. Ibid., p. 45.
15. Herzl, “The Eternal Jew,” in Collected Zionist Works, vol. 1, p. 233, p. 234.
16. Herzl, “Palestine or Uganda?” in Collected Zionist Works, vol. 1, p. 501. The image was used already by Smolenskin in 1881: “We seek only to provide bread, in a land in which there is hope that those who labour on it will find rest.” See Peretz Smolenskin, “Let us search our Ways,” p. 152.
17. Isaac Breuer, The Jewish National Home (Frankfurt/M.: Kauffmann Verlag, 1925), p. 41.
18. Breuer, Messiah’s Tracks (Frankfurt/M.: Rudolf Hammon, 1918), p. 27.
19. Breuer, The Jewish National Home, p. 42.
20. Achad Haam, “This is Not the Way,” in Standing at the Crossroads, vol. 1 (Berlin: Jüdischer Verlag, 1913), p. 42.
21. Ibid., p. 41, p. 42.
22. Achad Haam, “The Man Within,” in Standing at the Crossroads, vol. 1, p. 91.
23. Achad Haam, “Wounds from a Friendly Hand,” in Standing at the Crossroads, vol. 1, p. 59.
24. Achad Haam, Preface to the second Hebrew edition of Standing at the Crossroads, vol. 1, p. 25. The Hebrew has “thiyat ha-Yahadut” and the translations of “thiya” can vary between resurrection, revival, renaissance, and regeneration.
25. Achad Haam, Preface to the first Hebrew edition of Standing at the Crossroads, vol. 1, p. 13.
26. Achad Haam, “Lessons of the Heart,” in Standing at the Crossroads, vol. 1, p. 105.
27. Birnbaum, “The Jewish Renaissance Movement,” in Selected Texts on the Jewish Question, vol. 1 (Czernowitz: Birnbaum & Kohut, 1910), p. 162.
28. Hugo Bergmann, “Bigger Zionism,” in Javne and Jerusalem: Collected Essays (Berlin: Jüdischer Verlag, 1919), p 11.
29. Mordecai Kaplan, “Why a Greater Zionism?” in A New Zionism (New York: Herzl Press and Jewish Reconstructionist Press, 1959), pp. 173-189.
30. Birnbaum, “Jewish Renaissance Movement,” p. 165.
31. Birnbaum, “The Jewish Movement,” in Selected Texts on the Jewish Question, vol. 1, p. 171.
32. Achad Haam, “The Third Zionist Congress,” Standing at the Crossroads, vol. 1, p. 45.
33. Kook, “The Land of Israel,” reprinted in The Zionist Idea, p. 420.
34. Max Nordau: “Muscular Judaism,” in Max Nordau’s Zionist Writings (Cologne and Leipzig: Jüdischer Verlag, 1909), p. 380.
35. Abraham Isaac Kook: “Lights of Rebirth,” in The Zionist Idea, p. 431.
37. Breuer, The Idea of Agudism (Frankfurt/M.: Sänger Verlag, 1921), p. 10.
38. Samson Raphael Hirsch (Ben Uziel), Nineteen Letters, transl. Bernard Drachman (New York: 1899), p. 161.
39. Breuer, The Jewish National Home, p. 106.
40. Achad Haam, “The Time is Come,” in Standing at the Crossroads, vol. 2, p. 197.
41. Achad Haam, “The Revival of the Mind,” in Standing at the Crossroads, vol. 2, p. 135.
42. Achad Haam, “Rejection of Galuth,” in Standing at the Crossroads, vol. 2, p. 226.
43. Martin Buber, “The Mind of the Orient and Judaism,” in The Jew and His Judaism: Collected Essays and Speeches (Gerlingen: Lambert Schneider, 1993), p. 54.
44. Buber, “Judaism and Humanism,” in The Jew and His Judaism, p. 25.
45. Buber, “People, Nation, Zion: First Impressions and Reality” (Letter to Hermann Cohen), The Jew and His Judaism, p. 284.
46. Jacob Rosenheim, “Zionist ‘Religiosity’,” in Rosenheim, Ohalei Yaakov: Collected Essays and Speeches, vol. II (Frankfurt: J. Kauffmann, 1930), p. 89.
47. Siegmund Schott, “A Zionist Novel,” in On the Israeli: Central Organ for Orthodox Judaism (Frankfurt, 1903), p. 450.
48. Achad Haam, “Old New Land,” in Standing at the Crossroads, vol. 2, p. 67.
49. Ibid., p. 57.
50. Rosenheim, “Zionist Hypnosis,” in Ohalei Yaakov, vol. II, p. 345.
51. Rosenheim, “Contributions to the Orientation of Jewish Intellectual Life of the Future,” in Ohalei Yaakov, vol. I, p. 98.
52. Herzl, Journal, in Collected Zionist Works, vol. 2, pp. 84-85.
53. Ibid., p. 25.
54. Ibid., p. 33.
55. Ibid., p. 46.
56. Ibid., p. 47.
57. Ibid., p. 75.
58. Ibid., p. 68.
59. Ibid., p. 47.
60. Ibid., p. 68.
61. Buber, “Why Must the Building-up of Palestine be Socialist?” in The Jew and His Judaism, p. 373.
62. Buber, “The Holy Way: A Word to the Jews and the Peoples,” in The Jew and His Judaism, p. 90.
63. Buber, “Why Must the Building-up of Palestine be Socialist?”, p. 373.